A/N. After more than a year of having not written a single word, I'm trying to return to the fanfic world. So this is more a finger exercise than a fully fledged story; if my muse doesn't leave me, however, this might as well turn into at least a novella-length ficlet.
I know that the GoF year had ben rewritten by multiple authors much better than me; I would like to encourage you to read the following stories currently residing in mty favourites' list:
- A Cadmean Victory by DarknessEnthroned
- Letters by TheEndless7
- His Angel by durararaaa (unfortunately discontinued after 30-ish chapters)
- The French Connection by .Darkness-X
On a side note, I'm not planning to turn this into a Harry/Fleur story, at least not at this point. You might want to read "I Remember" if you are interested in my take on that pairing.
So here it is, the first chapter of my take on GoF with a Harry that had grown some balls in his first three years. Trying not to make it too much out of character, but yeah, the balls are definitely there. It's way out of my comfort zone; please feel free to criticise but only if you have constructive criticism to add.
Chapter edited and reuploaded 5/12/2016.
"...Harry Potter..."
Have you ever seen a place where more than a half thousand teen-aged people are crammed together eating the most exquisite foods they have ever tasted in their lives turn dead silent in the matter of a few milliseconds? Because, I swear on Merlin's withered whiskers, it was all it took when Dumbledore, after only a short second of hesitation, uttered my name, turning around the battered piece of parchment he was holding in his hands several times.
It was only a minute after I had stood and applauded together with three of the four Houses when the Goblet had spat out the name of our resident womanizer – otherwise a pretty decent guy – Cedric Diggory, the Hogwarts Champion. It was 45 seconds after I had grabbed Ron's collar in order to prevent him from making a fool of himself once again, as Bouillabaisse Girl a.k.a. Fleur Delacour, the drop-dead gorgeous part-Veela Beauxbatons champion had risen graciously from her spot beind the Ravenclaw table, the piece of parchment containing her name just having landed in Dumbledore's hand. It was mere 30 seconds after Slytherin table had burst into ovations as the rising Bulgarian Quidditch star, Viktor Krum, had secured his position among the Champions.
30 seconds of utter and sheer madness... and then, said complete silence. I couldn't help but wonder it it was the same kind of silence Neil Armstrong had experienced on the Moon after having made that historic step.
"Harry Potter!"
It's kind of hard to ignore one's name being called out in not-so-dulcet tones by He-who-has-too-many-titles-altogether, so I slowly stood. Five hundred different faces, five hundred different emotions on them. Pain and incredulity radiating from Hermione's chocolate brown eyes. Disbelief etched onto the beautiful faces of our resident Indian twins gracing Ravenclaw table with their presence tonight. The ever-present smirk mixed with a glorious amount of curiosity – yeah, you already guessed, the Prince of Slytherin.
By now, my remaining brain cells had duly registered something utterly and completely having gone haywire and made a not-even-so-shocking discovery. Ladies and gentlemen, as of this moment, I hereby re-baptise the Tri-wizard tournament into Quad-wizard tournament; the Quad being yours truly, Harry James Potter, the Boy-who-had-just-been-royally-screwed.
Of course I hadn't put my name into that fucking goblet. Why would I? Here I was, minding my own business and hoping for a relatively calm school year and a chance to hit on that gorgeous fifth-year Ravenclaw of Chinese origin and maybe grab a chance or two for some educative snogging sessions in a broom closet, thank you very much. Having had at least one near-death experience per year in my first three years, I was really looking forward to it. But no, someone just had to screw it for me and to put me up for the Tournament. Anyway, no time for self-pity, I had to get out of this situation as soon and unharmed as possible. My head was spinning around as I dove into some older memories of mine, memories of a night under the full moon in the Shrieking Shack.
"I, Sirius Orion Black swear on my life and magic," my mass-murderer Godfather intones clearly , "that I wasn't the Secret Keeper behind the Fidelius Charm cast by Albus Dumbledore to hide the Potter family. I swear that said Secret Keeper was Peter Pettigrew. I also swear that I haven't betrayed the Potters' whereabouts to You-know-who. So say I, so mote it be!"
All of us present in the Shack – Ron, whimpering from the pain in his broken leg, Hermione, her hand in mine, whom I have been shielding with my body from the ex-guest of Hotel Azkaban, Remus, training his own wand on Pettigrew – witness the brief flash encapsulating Sirius' body. Nodding satisfiedly, the battered wizard raises my holly-and-phoenix wand again and mutters "Lumos", then, as the tip of the wand lights up, "Nox".
"Harry needed to have been made sure, Moony," he grins, showing off the level of dental care he had been receiving during his 12-year long stay in the penthouse of the island hotel.
"Mr. Black," the trembling voice of Hermione interjects, "what would have happened to you if you had lied?" I swear the Hat had been piss-drunk while sorting her. She's channeling her Ravenclaw even at the wand-tip of an escaped convict, for fuck's sake!
"Stripped of my magic, then died. Or died, then stripped of my magic. Pick one, girlie," his eyes are ablaze again as he turns to the rat and points my wand between Pettigrew's eyes.
Right-o, one Wizarding Oath coming up! Inspiration stroke when the silence broke, turning into a cacophony again, albeit a slightly different kind.
"Well done, Harry!" One of the twins – I still mix them up every time – clapped me on my shoulder.
"It can't be! He hasn't done it!" Hermione's eyes filled with genuine tears.
"C'est impossible!" Our Beauxbaton guests were equally shocked. I would bet the deed to Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Sussex on the hunch that all of them, even the barely 9-10 year old girly sitting next to the spot Fleur had just vacated dreamed about getting into the Tournament
"Dead man walking, Potter!" It must have been Goyle; Crabbe hadn't been able to master English to such depths until the age of fourteen.
"Cheater!" Now, now, Ron... Where does this crock of shit come from?
"HARRY POTTER!"
Honestly, do you have to show off with your "Sonorus" charm? My ears are still ringin, dammit! Think, Potter, think!
"You have forgotten my middle name, Headmaster," I spat back, my remaining brain cells working over-hours. "What can I do for you?"
"Will you please follow the other champions into the antechamber and wait for us there?"
So, you are firmly set on having me compete in your bloody Tournament, you whiskered goat-fucker? "No, I will not please, Headmaster," I spoke clearly, walking up to the dais where said wanker stood nursing what – I hoped - without a doubt would be a Saturnus-sized headache pretty soon. Drawing my wand, I turned to the public, successfully suppressing the urge to take a deep bow.
"I, Harry James Potter, swear on my life and magic..."
"No, Harry!" Bless you, Hermione, I love you dearly, but shut up once in your life, will you? I got it... I guess, and if I don't, well... fuck!
"I, Harry James Potter, swear on my life and magic," I raised my wand toward the enchanted ceiling, "that I haven't had any intentions of competing in the Triwizard Tournament and haven't put my name into the Goblet. I also swear that I haven't asked any other person to put my name into the Goblet. The person to have done so has acted without my agreement and against my will. So say I, so mote it be."
Here it comes...
The sudden, blinding white flash encapsulated me, then disappeared. I released the breath I wasn't even aware of holding back. I was alive, a good sign indeed. Well, only one way to find out...
"Nox Maxima, motherfuckers!" I yelled, and suddenly all light in the Great Hall disappeared, releasing a second wave of sheer chaos into the crown. Silently hoping that my trembling legs wouldn't give in, I watched as here and there a feeble light would come into existence – Lumos charms - until the light returned – a wandless and silent Finite, most probably the Headmaster showing off again.
"Mr. Potter..." he started again, but I continued ignoring him. "Ronald Weasley," I called out to my now ex-friend. "A word, if you please."
For a moment I felt as if I were standing on the scene of a Broadway theatre at the premiere of "The Cats". Three years of being continuously and unwillingly standing in the spotlights does that to people.
The carrot-head slowly stood, clearly not understanding what I was up to. Neither was I, sorry to admit, but I had to make my point.
"Mr. Weasley," I spoke in a deliberately low, yet sharp voice. "A few moments ago you accused me of cheating my way into the Tournament and lying about it, isn't that correct?"
"Well..." he stuttered, flushing bright red and nervously wringing his hands, "it's not like that..."
"It's like what, you back-stabbing bastard? Did you pronounce the word 'cheater' or was it a product of my delirious imagination, yes or no?" I was on a roll; three years of pent-up frustration pouring out onto one unlucky Weasley. None of that was his fault, but that 8-inch blade he'd just stabbed me with came in the fucking worst moment in my entire life, so he had to pay. The rest who had landed me in this situation would come later, of course.
Now I had the complete attention of the Great Hall. Almost.
"I have taken a Wizarding Oath, Weasley, and I haven't lost my life or magic, either. That means that I wasn't lying when I said that I hadn't entered myself into the Tournament. By calling me a cheater, you insulted my family and, according to the Old Laws, I - the Scion of House Potter - have the right to challenge you to a honour duel."
I stood, my eyes locking onto Hermione's and giving her a barely perceptible wink, until the miniature chaos caused by my last words slowly died down. She gave a small, nervous smile in return, yet she seemed to be genuinely put off by all that had happened in the past few minutes. She and I, we would have a talk later. She'd be scolding my head off my shoulders, I would try to explain to her why I had to do what I'd done... that is if I survive the coming few minutes.
"Ten galleons says Weasley kills Potter out of mercy so that he wouldn't have to disgrace himself in the tournament."
The Slytherin table burst into laughter; of course, the intermezzo went unpunished as usual.
"Professor... Snape, if I may impose on your kindness as to officiating?" I turned around with a broad smile, making eye contact with the Greasy Bat.
"Enough of this, Mr. Potter. Do as you've been told and join the other champions," the twinkle disappeared from Dumbledore's eyes.
"Headmaster, I have no intentions of doing so. I don't know where you've been the past few minutes, but I've just proven that I cannot be considered part of this ridiculous tournament. Let me spell it out for you: I AM NOT A CHAMPION AND WILL NOT COMPETE." I turned back to Snape. "For three years you have been accusing me of being an attention-seeking brat, a celebrity and whatnot. For three years you haven't been able to put aside the childish grudges you may or may not still be feeling towards my long-dead father. Professor, Christmas comes early this year; I'm sorry that I had to seek attention to prove my right. As an additional bonus, you may watch as two of your least favourite students will try to sweep the floor with each other and, if you are lucky one or even both may turn up dead. So, will you participate in the fun?"
Snape pressed his jaws together, his glare drilling holes in me. "Thought so," I nodded, turning to Flitwick. "Professor, I always considered you with the deepest respect. Due to your decades of expertise in this field, it is with the same respect that I request you arbitrate my honour duel with Mr. Ronald Weasley."
"Mr. Potter," the diminutive Professor rose. "It pains me immensely to say so, but I recognize your right as Challenger and I will be honoured to officiate."
"Filius," McGonagall interjected in a voice full disbelief. "Surely you don't think that two of my Lions should blast each other to smithereens because Weasley's tongue is faster than his brain cells?"
Flitwick nodded sadly. "Before I answer your question, Minerva, please take a second to think why one of your Lions, Mr. Potter had decided to turn to me in this matter and not to you, his Head of House? Every year before the Sorting Ceremony you tell the first years that their house will be something like their family within Hogwarts. Now, it seems to me that you have been doing your utmost to contradict yourself and, when it comes down to your own Lions, you are doing a darn good job of forgetting your own words." He grinned, flashing his pointed teeth – some of the more faint-hearted might have called his grin a nightmare - and his Goblin blood silently enjoyed the shocked expression on McGonagall's face as the truth started to sink in.
"Very well," he nodded, hopping off his chair and walking toward us. "Albus, scoot off, be a good boy," he nonchalantly waved his wand, putting up a perimeter ward with a 15-feet diameter around himself and me. "Mr. Weasley, if you please."
Fred and George, book-ending Ron, grabbed him under his arms and swiftly delivered him into the center of the circle. Fred – at least I thought it was him – winked at me, then, quite unexpectedly, went down on one knee in front of me, George swiftly following his example.
"Mr. Potter, Sir..."
"...please grant your humble servants..."
"... a tiny request of..."
"...not hurting our brother too much..."
"...while teaching him good manners..."
"...otherwise there will be not much left for us..."
"...to continue his education..."
"...and to further utilize his sorry arse as our, rather unwilling, I must say..."
"...test subject for our newest range of school-skivving product line..."
"Rise, good people," I dismissed them with a mock theatrical gesture, barely able to contain the roaring laughter any 30-second interval in the presence of the twins would never fail to induce. Flitwick wasn't as lucky, however. Shaking his head and barely able to suppress his mirth, the Professor turned to us both.
"Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter has challenged you to a honour duel. Will you accept the challenge or will you apologize and forfeit?"
For a moment, I almost felt sorry for Carrot-head. Almost. Should he forfeit, he would publicly acknowledge of being an arsehole. Should he accept the challenge, well... it could go either way. The Gryffindor in him, however misplaced it was, won after brief contemplation – hell, I was not sure he would even know this word - and he nodded morosely, avoiding my glance. "I accept the challenge."
"The rules are as follows. This is an honour duel, so no Dark curses, no Unforgivables, no life-threatening curses or hexes are allowed. The party to resort to using such curses will be immediately disqualified and automatically declared loser. The duel will end when either or both opponents leave the circle, or when first blood has been drawn. Mr. Weasley, as the Challenged, you have the right to decide whether you choose a duel with seconds, or without."
"Pick me, Weasley, I beg you!" Yeah, I love you too, Malfoy.
"Without seconds, Professor," Ron muttered, determination is his eyes.
"Very well. Opponents, please stand with back to each other and make five steps. When done, turn facing each other, wands lowered. On my one, you bow to each other. On my two, you lower your wands again. On my three, you may cast. Terms clear?"
Having received two affirmative nods, Flitwick directed us to move away from each other as told and, when the five steps had been made, he started to count.
"One..."
I raised my wand, tip pointing at the ceiling, in a saluting gesture and bowed briefly, Ron doing the same. Never having attended a proper duel except that mockery in second year and having a more than limited repertoire of spells, I just silently hoped I would not make a fool of myself in front of 500+ students from the three leading magical schools of Europe, or at least that I would make a lesser fool of myself than Ron would make of himself. I wasn't really sure that the whole thing was such a brilliant idea, but there was no turning back. Some Gryfindow I am, throwing myself headlong into deep shit without thinking. On the other hand, in situations when said shit was hitting the proverbial fan, I could at least make sure that everyone who should be covered in a thin layer of excrement would be covered.
"Two..."
This is it. Damn your fucking mouth, Ronald Weasley. Three years long my best friend, sometimes even my only friend, just to sell me off like this. Haven't you learned anything about me, these past three years?
"Three..."
I instinctively ducked to the left; Ron being right-handed, I expected him to cast to my right side. Indeed, his weak Reducto blasted a few pebbles out of the marble floor in a harmless distance, far from my right. A weak Protego shield deflected the rogue ones flying towards me, out of harm's way. He followed up with a second one, now aiming better, so I had to pump some more magic into the shield to reflect his curse.
Twisting the wand motion into an upward curve under a 45 degree angle, I muttered "Aguamenti". The water showered Ron, soaking him to the skin, and the floor in a 6 feet circle around him, my unexpected attack breaking his concentration. I saw my opening. "Glaceo". The water on the floor immediately turned to ice, Ron instinctively ducking to the left as the yellow beam of the otherwise harmless jinx soared toward him. Losing his footing from the sudden movement, he fell flat on his arse, in a wondrous manner managing to shoot a weak stunner. I had to dodge, the minute delay giving him the chance to regain his stance. He didn't attack, however, only shot a murderous glare in my direction.
"Kill him, Weasley!"
"Ten points from Slytherin, and a week detention, Mr. Malfoy." Better late than never, Professor McGonagall.
Of course, we simply had to come up with the same attack.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
The two jinxes met halfway, the resulting blast throwing us both off our feet. Ron stood up faster, but his wand wasn't at ready yet. Now or never. "Leviosa!" I cried out from my lying position, trying to ar-ti-cu-late as good as possible. I always wanted to try this spell, after Ron's success in his unequal fight with the troll, and now I saw my chance. Sure enough, in a fracture of a second we had a fourth-year Gryffindor in the air completely at my mercy. Directing his flight, I lifted him outside the duelling ward and with a flick of my wand I broke the invisible seam of magic, causing Ron to plop back into his chair, effectively ending the duel. Now I could stood up as well, still slightly panting from the magical effort maintaining the Levitation charm on such a heavy object had taken.
"Clean fight, clean win for Mr. Potter", Flitwick announced, cancelling the wards around the duelling circle.
"Thank you, Miss Granger," I bowed to Hermione. Were it not for her nagging, I would have never got that jinx right. She got the hint, bless her soul and weakly smiled back at me, casting a murderous glare at Ron.
The reaction of the Great Hall at our tiny spectacle was mostly positive. More than a few applauses, an appreciating nod or two, but also a few boo's in my direction and a clearly disappointed "Dammit Weasley, you bloody Squib!"
"Now, if you are quite finished, Mr. Potter," the Whiskered Wanker clearly didn't get the hint yet when to give up.
"Headmaster," I spat back in the coldest voice I could muster. "I felt obliged to defend the honour of my family from the bland and unprovoked accusations of nota bene one of my own – and your former – House and, as Professor Flitwick was so kind to point out, I had every right to do so. With that out of the way, I'm afraid that the show is not over yet." From the corner of my eye I saw the three Champions, Karkarov and Maxime, as well as the representatives of the Ministry returning from the antechamber, most probably trying to figure out the reason behind the noise in the Great Hall and the delay in the evening show.
"Professor Flitwick, thank you for facilitating this duel. May your gold flow freely and your enemies tremble at your name," I turned back to the Ravenclaw Head, bowing respectfully. Even if he was surprised by the way I thanked him, he masked it expertly. "May I have one more question? Is there a way to summon... Aurors, is it? Can we summon Aurors to the castle?"
The diminutive professor nodded. "I understand where you are going, Mr. Potter. Mr. Percy Weasley, would you be so kind as to Floo-call the DMLE and request the immediate presence of a few Aurors?"
Percy promptly rose from his chair and made his way towards the same antechamber without uttering a word.
"Is this completely necessary, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall inquired, clearly at a loss. "Whatever you're thinking you are doing?"
"Exactly my point, Minerva." Brilliant. Mr. Crouch woke up as well.
I briefly contemplated about my options. There were not too many of them, unfortunately; actually only one that was even remotely feasible. However, I needed the Aurors here before answering the questions, so I only glared at them without saying a word. Luckily, it took only a minute before Percy the Prat re-emerged from the antechamber in the company of a a bald black wizard, six foot six, and a rather curvaceous, young witch with bubblegum-pink hair, both wearing what must have been Auror standard robes.
"Albus," the black wizard greeted the Headmaster, giving his hand a firm shake.
"Kingsley, my friend. Good evening, young Nymphadora." Honestly, what kind of screwed-up parent could hate his child so much to name her Nymphadora?
Obviously, she shared my sentiment, as her hair cycled through violet, light blue and grass green, before resuming that hideous bubblegum pink colour. How on Merlin's saggy pants did she do that?
"Erm... it's simply Tonks, professor Dumbledore..." she muttered embarrassed, examining her feet.
"Of course, Miss Tonks," Dumbledore cast his obligatory peacemaker smile at the young witch. "I am terribly sorry for disrupting what must have been a quiet evening for you, but young Mr. Potter here seems to be in need of your... services. Harry, this is Senior Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt and..."
"Good evening, Senior Auror Shacklebolt," I extended my hand to the man towering over me, silently praying that I get it back in one piece. However, he shook it in an unexpectedly gentle way. "Good evening, Mr. Potter," he rumbled in a deep bass.
"Good evening, Miss Simply Tonks," I smiled at the young woman. Once this evening had turned out the way it had turned out, I decided I could just as well have some fun out of my rather fucked-up situation. I was still running dangerously high on adrenaline, what with the tournament and my impromptu duel with Weasley.
"Good evening, Mr. Simply Potter," she upped the ante, flashing a 32-tooth smile. God is she gorgeous. Says I, the barely 14-year old youngster with absolutely no experience in the opposite sex whatsoever. And that smooth, silky, sweet voice... How old is she? 20? 21? Waaay to old for you and waaay our of your league, Potter! Let go of her hand before she hexes you to Jupiter and back!
She winked at me, and her hair briefly took the exact shade of my black. Brilliant. Now I will have the exact opposite of a nightmare. Damn you, teenage hormones!
"What can we do for you, Mr. Potter?" Kingsley inquired, summoning a small notebook and a Quick-Quote Quill from the depth of his Auror robe.
"Senior Auror Shacklebolt," I stressed his rank, looking straight into the Headmaster 's eyes, after having cast another "Sonorus" on myself, "I would like to report one count of attempted murder, one count of conspiracy to murder, and multiple counts of willful neglect as to the well-being of several minors placed under one's magical guardianship." When I saw that angry flash in Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes and heard the collective "oooh" of the 500+ souls present in the Great Hall, I knew my poison arrow had reached its target. Dumbledore unexpectedly grabbed my elbow and directed me out of the Great Hall, toward the antechamber, the Aurors, McGonagall and Flitwick following us. Passing Bouillabaisse Girl, her glance shocked me, but only for a moment. A furtive glance, nothing else, a mixture of approval and respect.